


The Ineffable Miracle of Birth

by AstroGirl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Birth, Established Relationship, Other, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Temporarily female Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 22:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21084014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstroGirl/pseuds/AstroGirl
Summary: Demons were never meant to create life.  But this is hardly the first rule Crowley's broken without even meaning to.





	The Ineffable Miracle of Birth

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Hurt/Comfort Bingo, for the prompt "difficult/unexpected pregnancy." I've rated it M for at least one sexual comment, a lot of swearing, and a not-very-graphic birth scene, but that's probably overkill, really.

The creature inside her burns.

Heaven knows-- Hell knows-- No, _Crowley_ knows, and she's the only one who _does_ know. Crowley knows that a little bit of someone holy inside you can be very, very pleasant, in that tingly, transgressive, hurts-so-good kind of way. That is, after all, how she got into this situation in the first place.

But it's not something you want 24/7, this feeling of standing on consecrated ground, except the consecrated ground is smack in the middle of your insides. Insides you didn't even mean to make in the first place, only you got carried away, and now you can't get rid of them because there's something god-blessed _holy_ using them, something you never asked for and are a little terrified of.

**

"Why couldn't it be more demonic?" she says, not for the first time, and probably not for the last, either. "It's _mine_, as much as it is yours. More, since I'm the one carrying it. It's not fair."

Aziraphale, thankfully, doesn't point out that life isn't fair and that God has a stupid sense of humor and hates her. He probably isn't even thinking it, knowing him. Instead, patiently, he says, "Being a demon is hardly likely to be hereditary."

"Of course it isn't," she says. "Because demons _don't have babies_. This is ridiculous. God is punishing me. Again."

But Aziraphale looks hurt at that, genuinely hurt, so of course she can't let it stand like that. "Didn't mean the baby," she mutters. 

"I know, darling," Aziraphale says. He lays his hand on her belly again. "Let me help." 

She lets out a ragged sigh of relief as his touch spreads through her. Ridiculous, too, that holiness can soothe the pain of holiness, but then, the whole situation is ridiculous.

"I'm sorry it hurts you," says Aziraphale. And she can tell he is. His face says that he'd take the pain for her if he could. Ironic, that, since she's pretty sure this wouldn't hurt him at all. But it's a pleasant thought, nonetheless. One that's almost as soothing as his touch. 

She sighs again. "Nah, I guess it's a good thing. Means at least She's not punishing the kid." Whatever's inside her, it won't be born Fallen. At least God isn't quite _that_ cruel. And if it means that their offspring – their stupid, impossible, miraculous, frightening, already-loved offspring – takes more after its father than its mother, maybe that won't be such a bad thing, anyway.

"Of course She isn't," Aziraphale says. His voice is gentle, and loving, and kind. 

Aziraphale removes his hand. The feeling of relief lingers. It will for a while, she knows. She could sleep if she wanted to. But instead she grabs his hand in hers and moves it back to her belly. He smiles at her. She smiles back, and closes her eyes, and basks in a feeling lovelier and more overwhelming than her faded memories of knowing the love of God.

**

It hurts. It really fucking _hurts_, and she can't stop it. She screams again.

"Are you sure," Aziraphale says, wringing his hands in front of him, "that you can't just miracle the child out now?"

"Yes, I'm _sure_! What do you think I've been _trying_ to fucking do?"

"Well, really," says Aziraphale, then immediately looks ashamed of himself. He takes her hand. "Just... Just breathe, darling. That's what they tell human women, isn't it?"

"I don't need to fucking breathe, angel!" She's not a human, bless it, no matter how much she feels like one right now, and _breathing_ is an unnecessary cosmetic frill.

"Just try," he says. "For me?"

"For you," she sneers, then screams again as another contraction ripples through her. "You're the one who did this to me, you bastard angel!" Immediately, she feels embarrassed, but fortunately Aziraphale doesn't watch sitcoms, and hopefully has no idea just how cliché she's being.

"I do believe it was a joint effort," Aziraphale says, gliding his hand across her belly and smoothing out the pain. "And if you recall, _I_ was perfectly happy with the male version of your corporation. You were the one who wanted to experiment."

"Aaaaargh!" Crowley isn't sure whether the scream is one of frustration or of pain now muted, but still very much a going concern. Either way, it feels good, so she does it again.

"Really, my dear, will you _try_ breathing?"

"Aaaargh," she says again, more a commentary this time than a scream, but, fine, if it'll shut him up, she'll do it.

She tries it the way she's seen on TV, short panting breaths, in and out, riding through the pain.

Fucking Satan, it actually _helps_. She decides not to tell him, but he's got a smug look on his face, so probably he's figured it out. Bastard, bastard angel.

"Why _can't_ I just miracle it out?" she says. It comes out annoyingly plaintive. She tries it again, and again, of fucking _course_, it doesn't work.

"Well..." Aziraphale says, squeezing her hand, then looks like he's thought better of whatever he was going to say.

"What?"

"Never mind. It's nothing."

"Angel, do not fucking lie to... to the mother of your child!"

"Oh, goodness," he says. "That _is_ an idea that's going to take some getting used to."

Crowley death-grips his hand for a moment as another spasm rips through her. "What. Were you. Going. To _say_."

Aziraphale looks embarrassed. "Well, you know, I imagine it's the, er, the Curse of Eve. Which arguably, _technically_ you were responsible for. Some might consider it cosmic justice."

Crowley growls. Then hisses. Then growls again, for good measure.

"Not _me_, of course," Aziraphale says quickly, and sends another soothing wave of miracle through her.

"I hate you," she says.

"You don't," says Aziraphale, smiling brightly. "You're having my child!"

Crowley tilts her head back and groans. "'Cosmic justice.' It's worse than the bloody M25!"

"It's nearly over. You're doing so very well."

"Don't patronize me, angel."

"Sorry," he says in a tone that makes it clear he's really not.

They let the conversation lapse for a while. Crowley groans and convulses and hurts, and wonders, in the moments when she's not doing any of that, what on Earth she is even _doing_ here.

"Why is this even _happening_?" she moans. It feels so wrong. All of it feels so wrong. "I'm a demon. I'm not... We're not meant to _create life_." It comes out as a sort of wail, riding on a crest not just of pain, but of some deep and unnamed fear.

Aziraphale brushes damp, sweat-slick hair from her forehead and squeezes her hand again. "I know," he says. The look he's giving her is trascendently angelic, and it does something warm and confusing to her heart. "My beautiful rebel. Always doing things you were never meant to."

She laughs, and oh, that helps, somehow, better than the breathing. _Fuck_, but she loves this idiot angel. Which is probably a good thing, because...

"Satan. I think..." She stops to breathe, and then to cry out again. "I think..." But she stops, because she doesn't think, now, she _knows_. She knows it's coming.

Unholy shit, it's really coming. They're really going to be...

But she doesn't finish that thought for a while, because everything is pain and pushing and breathing and Aziraphale holding her hand and helping but afraid to help too much and looking at her like she's God Herself, such beautiful blasphemy, like this beautifully blasphemous thing they're doing right now, and, and, and....

And then there's one final flurry of pushing and swearing and hurting, and a strange feeling, the strangest, like setting something free, and Aziraphale is gasping and something is crying, and it was _real_, all of it was real, it's not a trick. They have a child. The first thing she's created since the stars.

"Hello," she says as Aziraphale nestles the strange new creature into her arms. She looks up at him. "Angel..." But she can't finish the thought. It's too big.

"I know," he says, reverently. He brushes her hair back again. "How do you feel? Better?"

It's hard to take her attention off the beautiful, impossible, perfect shape in her arms and pay attention to her own body, but she does, just for a moment.

There is no pain, anymore. Not the kind she's felt for the last nine months. No sense of wrongness, no burning. 

But there is still a feeling of borrowed holiness inside her. 

"Better," she says. "I think everything is better now."

And, tired from creation, Crowley rests.


End file.
